


Feta Fiction

by notmousse (orphan_account)



Category: Drive (2011), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Sharpe (TV), Supernatural, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Gen, multifandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/notmousse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epic tale set in a world where fanfiction is outlawed, four characters fight to survive their various addictions ranging from niche fanfictions to pâté, knitting and hardcore angst whilst avoiding the long arm of the law, planning daring rescues and coups and struggling in poverty. Interspersed with fics from multiple fandoms, the reader will be transported across an array of worlds including those of Supernatural, Lord of the Rings, Sharpe, Crime and Punishment, the Hannibal Lecter Series, and Drive. Introducing: Feta Fiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two figures wait to collect a delivery of illegal fanfiction.

The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The two figures watched the rain beat down onto the potholed ground, growing quickly into big dirty puddles, falling in sheets from either side of the bridge above. A car or truck would occasionally rumble overhead sending a red glimmer of light over the soaked ground to race off into the muddy banks on either side. The figures stood, huddled in shadow, stamping their feet and breathing hotly into their cupped hands, steamy plumes of vapour rising into the frozen air. They waited.

After some time, a third figure approached. She emerged out of the rain and crossed to the other two, pushing back the hood of her coat as she neared. The two figures shuffled in nervous anticipation.

“The materials you requested,” she said in a clipped tone, reaching into her coat and producing two A4 brown envelops. “Emily,” – she passed an envelope to one of the figures who snatched it up quickly and stuffed it under her jumper – “and Ellen.” The second figure took the envelope and zipped it speedily into her backpack, casting around a furtive glance.

“You’re not the usual –” she began.

“My ex-associate found themselves on the wrong side of the Writer,” the figure interrupted. “I will be delivering the materials from now on.”

“You could have been more punctual,” Emily muttered.  
“Listen,” the figure hissed, eyes glaring. “You ought to be more courteous.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed, examining, and opened wide as she realised who the figure was.

“Charlotte!” she gasped. “I’ve heard so much but never believed the stories…”

“Believe them,” Charlotte said, voice steely. She pulled her hood up, shadowing her face. The two figures watched her go until she disappeared into the rising mist. Emily turned to Ellen.

“Tomorrow, same place as usual?” she asked. Ellen nodded, already walking away. The two figures went their separate ways.

Down the track, Charlotte slammed the door of her car, wiping the rain out of her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel, eyes on the rear-view mirror, waiting for the back passenger to make some sort of indication or instruction. A faint meaty smell travelled to her nostrils: pâté. The passenger shifted and eyes glinted at her from the darkness. Charlotte took this as an invitation to speak.

“One of them recognised me,” she said.

The passenger was silent. On the steering wheel, Charlotte’s knuckles turned white. At length, the passenger spoke.

“Drive.”

Charlotte put the car into gear, barely daring to breathe. As the car pulled away, it tossed a damp, discarded newspaper into the air. Car moving into the distance, through the smudged ink and muddy patches, the headline could just be seen. 

_FANFICTION OUTLAWED: POLICE CLOSING IN ON BLACK MARKET_


	2. A Moose's Close Shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen returns to her room after the fanfiction delivery and reads A Moose's Close Shave in which, following a werewolf attack, Dean cares for Sam's injuries while their father is concerned only with venting his anger and frustration upon them.

The lock clicked and Ellen shouldered open the door of her room. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering as she turned it on before filling the dank room with a faint glow. Pushed against one side of the room was a small bed with a thin mattress, the opposite wall featuring only a table and paraffin burner. A suitcase was under the table, a few sleeves and socks poking out, and a threadbare rug covered the floor.

Ellen took a quick glance out of the door and down the corridor, rain water dripping from her hair onto her face and mingling with the nervous sweat beginning to form on her forehead. Seeing no one, she shut the door, locked it and made her way over to the bed. Holding her breath, she removed the brown A4 envelope from her backpack, holding it delicately, fragile between her fingers. Opening it, she drew out a small bundle of paper held together by a staple in the top left corner. The paper was sky blue, the Writer’s signature colour. Hands shaking, Ellen closed her eyes and held the bundle to her face, breathing in the familiar scent.

This is what made all of it worthwhile. The poverty, living in this hovel, struggling for food, clothes, the rent… As long as there was a steady stream of fanfiction, none of it mattered. In fact, it was a small price to pay. A constant fear of being discovered haunted Ellen day and night but the thought of having nothing to read was more terrifying still.

She briefly remembered the day fanfiction had been outlawed. She would never forget it. Girls and women of all ages had been dragged, screaming, kicking, from their homes and thrown into trucks, shipped off like animals to the fiction feasor camps. It was said they were forced before giant screens and made to watch episode after episode of the shows for which they had been caught writing fanfiction, deprived utterly of any objects one could use to write with. Girls had gone mad, lost their minds utterly to the torture, reduced to drivelling wrecks. These damned souls were known as ‘I-can’t-evens’, named after the horrible spluttering words they would shriek from their cells night after night. No one had ever escaped the camps.

Ellen shivered, drawing a deep breath to calm herself. She reassured herself that it would never happen to her. She had close ties with Emily who had once been found guilty of fanfiction but now lived off the RADAR, moving around and keeping out of the reach of the long arm of the law. Through an agreement wherein Ellen paid for 65 per cent of the total cost of their fanfiction drops, Emily kept her safe, securing her phone and accommodation and keeping her footprint on the public system minimal. Protection like this made it possible to meet the Writer’s dealers for fiction drops.

She looked at the blue paper in her hands. A shiver crawled up her spine at the sight of the familiar font, heart beating faster. Trembling, she turned the page and began to read…

_**A Moose’s Close Shave** _  
_by notmousse_

_Fandom: Supernatural_  
 _Pre-Season 1_  
 _drama/hurt/comfort_

_Burn immediately after use._

Dean blinked stupidly, horrified, frozen to the spot by what he was seeing. It took a few seconds for his instincts to kick into gear. The werewolf had Sam in an iron grip, cruel hooked claws digging into his flesh. Razor sharp teeth flashed and descended. Sam wriggled, trying to yank himself free, yelling, but the werewolf’s jaws closed down on his skull and ripped a chunk of hair and skin free in an instant. Hot red blood misted the hair. Dean propelled himself forward with a roar, knife in hand, and lunged at the werewolf. Snarling, it released Sam and turned on Dean. Dean slashed wildly at it with his knife, fury in every movement. Vaguely he was aware of Sam in the corner of his vision, slumped on the ground. With one quick movement, Dean ducked past the werewolf’s flailing arms and rammed hard into its stomach, sliding the knife up and into its ribcage. He twisted and the werewolf howled in pain. It leapt backward, clutching its side, pain in its eyes. Breathing heavily, Dean watched as it turned and ran, blood dripping from the knife and his forearm to form a small puddle on the floor. 

From somewhere to his left he heard a shout and turned to see their father run towards him. John Winchester’s eyes flashed, looking from Dean to where the werewolf had disappeared. Rage appeared in his face. Dean braced himself but his father only turned to look at Sam.

“Help me with him,” he growled, pocketing his gun and moving over to where Sam lay.

Obediently, Dean took one of Sam’s arms, resting it over his shoulder and helping him up as their father took the other side. Looking him over, Dean saw that the blood from his head wound was not bleeding any longer but that the werewolf’s claws had torn deeply into his left bicep. He felt Sam’s blood dribble onto his neck, warm and sticky.

They carried him to the Impala, resting him down in the back seat. Dean sat with him, a hand pressed over Sam’s arm as John accelerated onto the road. Sam’s eyelids flickered as he swam in and out of consciousness. Dean’s face remained resolute and hard as they drove through the night, determined not to let his worry show. They arrived at the motel, hurriedly struggling Sam to the door and lifting his limp body onto one of the beds. Dean immediately went to the duffle bag, grapping a roll of bandages, and began to wrap Sam’s arm. John appeared and threw a glass of water into Sam’s face. Sam spluttered and his eyes opened, coughing.

“You IMBECILE!” John yelled in a frenzy. “If the thing has you, you damn bloody shoot it!”

Sam just closed his eyes and tried to breathe. Dean stood up, incredulous.

“It had his gun arm!” he defended angrily.

“Do you think that’s gonna matter to a werewolf when all it wants is to tear your face off?!” John screamed, towering over him. Dean was terrified but refused to show a sign.

“I didn’t see you doing anything t–”

“Couldn’t get a clear shot ‘cos Sammie here was dancing with it like the sugar plum fairy!”

A fire rose in John’s eyes, nostrils flaring, and Dean knew better than to push any further. He backed off and was silent, though his face remained defiant. His father threw his knapsack down onto floor and headed for the door.

“Where are yo–”

“Got a werewolf to take care off since my useless son didn’t finish the job,” John said over his shoulder. The door slammed behind him and the rumble of the Impala disappeared away.

Dean turned back to the bed, trembling with anger and adrenaline. He resumed wrapping Sam’s arm. The bleeding hadn’t stopped. Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean.

“It’s gonna need stitches.”

“I know,” Dean growled. His words came out more harshly than he intended and he silently berated himself for it. “The bleeding has to stop.” He tightened the bandage and Sam winced.

“Let me see your head,” Dean grunted, moving Sam’s head to look at the wound the werewolf’s teeth had left there. Sam protested, yelping in pain.

“Sorry,” Dean said, more gently this time. Sam turned onto his side, a pained expression on his face as Dean looked at the missing chunk of skin and hair. The wound wasn’t as bad as it had looked. An inch in diameter, a glimpse of bone showing through the broken skin and blood-matted clumps of hair, the wound looked as though the werewolf’s jaws had only closed down on hair, yanking a patch free. Dean sighed in relief.

“It didn’t bite you.”  
He reached for the antiseptic solution on the bedside table and unscrewed the cap with his teeth, one hand gripped tightly over Sam’s wrist. Sam stifled a yell and scrunched his eyes tight, teeth gritted in agony as Dean mopped the wound with the solution. Dean kept a hand over his wrist to stop him struggling until the burn subsided.

*** 

Sam awoke with a start. Daylight flooded through the open curtains and he blinked his eyes. A thick, heavy pain throbbed from his left arm and he looked down to see it stitched up, swollen and red. A sharper pain came from his scalp over his eye. He went to feel it with tentative fingers and touching bandage, he withdrew his hand, squinting in pain.

“Alive?” A gruff voice came from above him. Sam looked to see his father standing over him. He was wiping a knife with an old cloth.

Sam nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, we’re leaving in an hour, cattle deaths reported north of here.” His father walked away towards the bathroom.

“You’re gonna be OK,” Dean’s voice came from the other side of the bed. “Don’t freak out when you look in the mirror though – Dad made me cut your hair so that –” he gestured to the wound on Sam’s head “– doesn’t look so obvious.”

Sam looked at him blankly. Dean look for any sign of emotion but found nothing. He cleared his throat.

“I sewed up your dirty old rags as well so they’re good to go.” He held up the plaid shirt Sam had been wearing with a weak grin.

“It’s still got blood on it,” Sam commented.

“Alright, princess.” Dean rolled his eyes. Sam smiled.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean threw the shirt at him and started pulling on a pair of boots. Sam pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, cautiously getting to his feet.

“Get something to eat,” their father’s voice came from the bathroom as an electric razor whirred into life. “Long journey ahead.”

“I saw a Gas-n-Sip just over the road,” Dean said to Sam, nodding in the direction. “Hurry up and we’ll go.”

Sam pulled on a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt and followed him out the door. The boys crossed to the gas station and Dean began to browse the shelves.

“Pie, pie, pie… ah, pie!” Dean found and selected an apple pie, sending a triumphant smirk in Sam’s direction.

They ate it on one of the parasoled benches outside. The sun warmed Sam’s back as he picked at the pie with his plastic fork. He caught a glimpse of himself in the Gas-n-Sip’s sliding doors as a trucker went through. He frowned at his appearance, hair now a close buzz cut. Dean caught the expression on his face.

“Hey, so the hunt last night went bad. So what? Wasn’t your fault. Besides, I have it on good authority the ladies prefer the shorter cuts.” He smirked again and ruffled what was left of Sam’s hair with a stupid grin. Sam pushed his hand away, groaning in protest.  
“What?” Dean laughed.

Opening his mouth to retort, a shadow fell across the table and Sam looked up to see John Winchester standing over them.

“Time to go?” Dean asked. Sam looked at the bench wearily and picked at a splinter.

“Yeah. In the car, now.”

“Come on, Sammie.” Dean got up, pie in hand. “It’s huntin’ time!” He made a comical impression of the Hulk and followed their father towards the Impala.

“Yeah yeah,” Sam muttered under his breath also standing up. “The family business calls…”


	3. Sharpe's Dishonour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte makes a delivery to the Writer who threatens to withdraw her fanfiction privileges unless she agrees to do something else for the Writer. Regretfully agreeing to this request, Charlotte is given her fanfiction and goes away to read it. In this fic, Sharpe is distracted by his vices during a rescue mission. Challenge: spot the 'subtle' LotR overtones.

“Make your next requests by Friday and leave them in the blue Mondeo with the red door in the junk yard before dawn with the money. I’ll find them.”

The junkie in front of Charlotte nodded fervently and scuttled away, clutching the brown A4 envelop of fanfiction to her chest. They were a new client but soon they would be just as hooked as everyone else on Charlotte’s delivery list, putty in her hands. She was slowly gaining a reputation in this line of business. Fewer clients were making rookie mistakes and being caught because a mere word from her struck them with a fear greater than that of the prospect of prison or torture. It made them careful, more cautious. They knew how high she was in the ranks and Charlotte was pleased that word was getting around that she communicated directly with the Writer. Her reputation won favour not only with the clientele but also with the Writer, who obviously needed representatives who could do the job properly and minimize risk. This in turn guaranteed her the fulfilment of her own needs.

These needs were particularly difficult to fill and again Charlotte cursed her proclivity for falling into such niche infatuations. When she had come into this line of work she had sworn never to stoop to the depths some others she knew would go to in order to obtain their next fix. But being so close to the Writer’s works, living in the country where he originated from – and indeed the only country in which he was not outlawed – the odds had been against her. And the Writer knew exactly how to play to this weakness. As the only writer of Sharpe fanfiction left in the known world, Charlotte was but a slave to the Writer’s every command. And she hated both herself and the Writer for it.

The Writer lived in a huge secret underground lair. Occasionally Charlotte would sleep there, whenever she needed a shower or food, but she would be in her car most nights. Her only other occasion to be there was to pick up the new works or deliver things to the Writer at her request, and, of course, receive the next instalment of Sharpe fanfiction in return for her services.

Charlotte felt the familiar gnaw; not of hunger but of the need to read about her blond tousle-haired, super hunk hero of the Napoleonic wars. She quickly glanced over her shoulder at the back seat of the car to make sure the Writer’s requested items were still there. There would be no Sharpe without them. They were there and Charlotte turned back to the road, pressing down on the accelerator a little harder.

At the lair, she found the Writer in her usual place. This was at her desk, the clicking and clacking of keyboard keys and the whirring of printers filling the room. In the darkness, Charlotte could only see a vague, distorted version of the Writer’s face, illuminated only by the light of the laptop screen.

As she entered the room, the Writer looked up and piercing eyes glinted at her from the gloom. The tapping of keyboard keys stopped. Charlotte approached, feigning confidence in the presence of this fearsome literist. She placed the bag of items on the desk. A hand emerged from the darkness and a pale finger lazily expected the bag so the Writer could see what was inside. The finger retracted and the hand extended again, this time holding a file of paper.

Charlotte’s pupils dilated and she fought not to show in her face or body language how much she ached to hold the file. She went forward to take it but the Writer pulled it back so that her fingers closed on thin air. A wave of despair shuddered through Charlotte.

“I want you to do something for me,” the Writer said. Charlotte closed her eyes and knew what was coming next. “I want you to find someone and I want you to kill them.”

Charlotte swallowed. Sweat beaded her forehead. She looked at the file. She fell to her knees.

“Please! Do not make me do this!” she begged, shaking. “Anything else, but not this!”

The writer said nothing, merely retracted the file further so that it all but disappeared into the gloom.

“No!” Charlotte cried in horror. She crawled to the desk and gripped its edge in earnest. “Please!”

The Writer made no movement or sound. Charlotte hung her head in shame, expression distorted with pain.

“OK,” she whispered, choking in her tears.

“You know who must die,” the Writer replied. The hand and file extended back into the light. Charlotte looked up and felt like a helpless infant bird begging for a worm. She took the file and croaked a reply of acknowledgment. She got to her feet and tried to compose herself, but her face betrayed her self-loathing.

She walked out of the room, feeling the Writer’s eyes on her back. She closed the door behind her and broke into a run. She reached her room and threw open the file. A sense of relief and pleasure, tinged horribly with guilt, flowed through her as her eyes passed over the words.

_**Sharpe's Dishonour** _  
_by notmousse_

_Fandom: Sharpe_  
 _romance/drama/action_

_Burn immediately after use._

Sharpe clutched the rope with two strong hands. Placing a foot firmly on the wall, he began to climb. Below him, Harper watched on, face showing a determination which reflected Sharpe’s own. The grappling hook had been a bitch to attach to the window above. Firing it from a long bow, Sharpe had eventually made it clutch the ledge after what seemed like the hundredth attempt. Inside the fort, the 95th Rifles, Sharpe’s troop of Chosen Men, waited for rescue. They had been taken captive in a French ambush, and were no doubt being held for interrogation. Though his superiors had nothing short of ordered him to leave them there to rot, Sharpe would hear no word of it. He would not abandon them to torment and death. Not while he had strength left. And so, leaving all that could be spared behind, traveling light, only he and Harper had embarked on this rescue mission. 

Sharpe’s foot slid on the rocks, sending a shower of crumbled brick and rocks down to the ground. He regained his footing and continued to climb. He reached the ledge and heaved himself up and through, clutching his rifle and dropping to the floor on the other side. The room was dark, lit only by the pale, milky moonlight pouring in from the window. He could see the silvery outlines of a table, chairs and a wardrobe. Casting his eyes to the other side of the room, he saw a four poster bed, draped in a thin veil of curtains. Sharpe caught his breath, seeing a figure sleeping, silhouetted against the veils. He began to creep slowly towards the door he could see across the room. A floorboard creaked as he trod on it and the figure in the bed stirred and sat up. Sharpe cursed under his breath.

“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice called. “I can see you. I will call the guards!”

Sharpe kept stock still, hoping the woman was bluffing and hadn’t seen him. To his dismay, the figure threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He saw her take hold of a broom leaning against a wall. Brandishing it like a weapon, she made her way around the bed and towards him, hesitant in the dark.

“Who are you?” she demanded, adopting a defensive stance with the broom held in two hands.

“Richard Sharpe,” Sharpe said weakly. Perhaps he could settle this without force and the woman would let him be on his way.

The woman edged forward into the moonlight streaming from the window. She wore a white nightdress which draped around her slender frame as though it was the moonlight itself, caressing her elegant hips and rounded breasts gently. Ebony hair cascaded around her shoulders is subtle waves. Sharpe sucked in a breath, reverent before the beauty before him. She too seemed to be looking at him, sizing him up with large, dark eyes. Sharpe could see her grip loosen on the broom and a look of hesitance flitted across her face.

“You came in by the window?” she asked him.

“Yes, m’lady.” Sharpe felt a little stupid, as though he had been caught stealing food from a pantry.

“You like to watch women as they sleep?”

“No!” Sharpe protested. “I mean ye– but… not like that. What I mean is, I –” He was becoming flustered.

“Shh.” The woman suddenly moved closer and laid a delicate finger across his lips. Sharpe was silent in an instant.

“It would seem the fates have brought us together then,” the woman said. “You must like to watch woman as they sleep or you would not trouble to scale the walls outside to reach my bed chambers.” Sharpe made no protest. The woman moved closer and pressed her body against his. The broom was discarded on the floor. She snaked a hand behind his neck, the other moving over his back as she drew herself even closer. “I think you must like to watch them even more in bed when they are not sleeping...” She raised an eyebrow mischievously.

Sharpe looked down at her face, the high cheekbones, porcelain-smooth skin, full red lips. He thought of his wife briefly. Briefly, and then he was kissing her.

*** 

Harper watched Sharpe disappear though the window and waited. He heard no sound and expected Sharpe to wave him up when the coast was clear, but saw nothing.

“Sir?” he ventured up to the widow after a few moments, keeping his voice as low as he could for fear of being discovered by the night patrol which would surely pass by any moment. “Sir?”

No sound.

Harper looked about him anxiously. He thought he heard approaching footfall. Grabbing hold of the rope, he tested it and, satisfied that it was still hooked firmly in place, he began to ascend towards the window ledge. He climbed through and settled onto the floorboards of the room inside, keeping low with a tight grip on his 6-barrelled rifle.

Sounds and movements came from his left. He looked up to see a bed. Through the curtains draped around, he could see two figures writhing together under the sheets. Around on the floor Harper saw Sharpe’s forest green jacket, trousers, shirt, belt, shoes and a nightdress which was certainly not Sharpe’s. A familiar voice grunted from the bed. Harper rose to his feet, dismayed.

“Sir!”

Sharpe started at Harper’s voice and rolled off the figure below him, who yelped in surprise and pulled up the sheets to cover her nakedness.

“Harper! I –” Sharpe began in mortification.

“Your wife!” Harper cried. “And your men! This is a rescue mission, not… not…” he flailed for words, “… this!”

“You’re married?” the woman shot to Sharpe. Sharpe stuttered for something to say. “Ooo, you dirty boy,” the woman said, biting her lip and sliding up close to Sharpe with a flirtatious grin. Harper looked on with horror, sending Sharpe a scathing look.  
“I… I have to rescue my men,” Sharpe said with difficulty and moved away from her. Harper gathered his commander’s clothes and threw them at him as Sharpe stood up.

“No!” the woman cried in indignation. “Wait!” But Sharpe and Harper were already on their way out of the room, Sharpe pulling on his clothes sheepishly and Harper shaking his head in disappointment.

“It was a gift!” the woman cried out of the door.


	4. Schisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Writer enjoys the pleasures of the delivery made by Charlotte in the previous chapter and decides to write part I of a Crime and Punishment short fic.

As soon as Charlotte closed the door of my study behind her, I went straight to the bag on the desk, descending upon it as a lioness would her prey. I opened it and looked inside. If my life had been an Indiana Jones movie, my face would have been bathed in golden light as I gawped at the treasure which lay within. As it was, thirty-seven tubs of pâté do not reflect light, golden or otherwise, to such an extent. Nevertheless, they are treasure. I watched my hand select a tub as if it were moving in that slow motion they use in dramatic movie moments sometimes. My hand opened it, savouring every moment. Upon the smell of the meaty paste reaching my nostrils, a frenzy took me and I ripped off the lid and tin foil seal with reckless abandon. I scooped the pâté up with my bare hands and shovelled it into my mouth. It seemed only a few moments before I had devoured six tubs of my favourite delicacy. I wiped a sleeve across my lips. Pâté was smeared around my face, down my chin, on my clothes and up my forearm. Though known for my fastidious cleanliness, this mess did not faze me; I felt energized, renewed, stronger. I felt the need to take a break from ‘feeding the masses’ (the phrase I used for my work) and write fanfiction purely for myself. Besides, the Crime and Punishment fandom needed supplementing somewhat, bereft as it was of any sort of coherency, aim or, indeed, existence.

“Aaangst,” I hissed to myself in glee, eyes wide and mad, as I hunched over my laptop and began to type.

_**Schisms** _   
_by notmousse_  


_Fandom: Crime & Punishment (by Fyodor Dostoevsky) _   
  
_angst/hurt/comfort/friendship/fluff_

(I did not bother writing ‘burn immediately after use’ as I usually did because I had a special place where I could keep my personal collection of fanfiction safe from prying eyes, eliminating the need to erase any evidence of illegality.)

Part I

The tavern was one of those awful, dirty holes where the very worst scum of St. Petersburg would cluster together, filthy and debase, to drink away their money, their families and their worthless, disgusting lives. Raskolnikov viewed the scene about him with loathing. The tavern was cramped and grimy, and crowded with bodies. They reeked of sweat and alcohol and shit. His lips twisted into a sneer in utter contempt and hatred for these people as he downed his shot of vodka. He was long since drunk and could feel his head lolling involuntarily as the dark, grimy room swayed before his eyes. Hunched over the bar, he rapped the empty glass on the counter and watched as it was refilled. He downed it and relished the scorching at the back of his throat.

Slapping a few roubles down on the counter, he turned to leave. Suddenly a heavy body slammed into him from his right and he staggered with the weight of the drunken oaf bearing down on him. The creature mumbled obscenities, cursing, and slurred an apology. His stench burned into Raskolnikov’s nostrils. The beast’s company heaved his steaming hulk back into the crowd. Rage flamed in Raskolnikov like a furnace, lighting his eyes and countenance to give him the appearance of an enraged animal. He stormed out of the tavern in a fury.

_These insects! These lice! Nothing but cockroaches. They don’t deserve to live. Ordinary people, foul, repulsive, ordinary people. They should die like that old pawnbroker, and I should be the one to kill them. Means to ends, just shit I have to wipe off my boots. No one is exceptional, no one is extraordinary. They follow one another in their stupidity only to end it all dying with cowardice and purposelessness. Why not end it sooner? Then those who are truly extraordinary might benefit from their demise. Good can come from their disgrace, if only a character of nobility and fortitude dares._

These familiar thoughts raced through Raskolnikov’s mind in a torrent of hatred. His body trembled with exasperation. Even as he claimed to himself that he was one of the few extraordinary, exceptional characters capable of ridding the world of their filth, a sensation stabbed at his heart as his thoughts cast him back to the killing of the pawnbroker, a feeling even upon which he cursed. The axe, the adrenaline, the complete surety that he was courageous and great for daring to raise a hand to swat this fly away from his food. Then the fear and faintheartedness as the old woman’s skull caved in under his blow of the axe; the blood pooling over the floor, his sickness as he fretted like a coward over it being on his clothes, Lizaveta’s face and his own horror as he realised he would have to kill her too. If he had been on time, if he had arrived at seven, if he had closed the door, maybe she would have lived. There was no reason for her to die; she had done no wrong by merely suffering at the hands of her cruel half-sister. Raskolnikov had only pity for her.

But he had botched the job. Fear had conquered him, and his sickness, which even now caused sweat to bead his brow and whiten his pallor, was a shameful testament to his cowardice and inability to complete the _perfect murder_. He was an embarrassment to himself, a miserable failure. Was it that he was not special, not a Napoleon at all, just another ordinary, pathetic lifeform, no different to the vagrants at the bar? His face twisted in disgust at himself.

The alcohol was affecting his body more than he had anticipated. He lurched, more than walked, down the streets as his mind continued to run through thoughts of hatred for himself, for the people around him, for the damn city, so claustrophobic and airless, and especially for the old pawnbroker whose hideous bloodied face he, in his fever, saw everywhere he looked. Was it scorn in her expression at his failure? Or, worse still, was it pity?

He stopped at a corner, hand on a lamppost to steady himself as he swayed. A headache encompassed his skull, an unbearable pressure. Bile rose in his throat, acidic on his tongue, and he choked vomit out onto the ground. Mixed with saliva, it hung from his lips and chin in strands, sticking to his clothes, stinking. He slipped in the muck and fell into the gutter. He slithered in it as he tried to regain his footing but to no avail; the ground felt like ice to his feet. Defeated, he slumped down onto the ground and drew himself up against a wall. He looked heavenward at the dark sky and whimpered softly to himself. The whimper slowly became a wail and he pressed both hands over his mouth in terror lest the wail became a scream, a scream he feared would never stop. He sat like this for some time.

At length, he stirred from this position. It was around three in the morning and freezing, a stark contrast to the hot days of July. His long overcoat, soaked in the slime around him, wetly slapped his legs as he pulled it around his trembling form. The vomit clung to him, mingled with sweat, dirt and saliva, and strands of his long dark hair plastered his forehead. He huddled in the gutter shivering, the cold air mixing with his fever to produce a truly awful sensation of burning all over his body. At that moment he was sure he would die – the thought even gave him some comfort – but neither the Fates nor his body would oblige him.

On his right, the street disappeared into murk and darkness. It was very quiet, but he heard something move. He looked up weakly. Two figures emerged from the gloom. Both men, they were bulky and walked with purpose towards him. Through eyes half-shut with exhaustion, Raskolnikov wondered briefly if it was Zamyotov and, perhaps, with him, Ilya Petrovich come to arrest him, his condition the proof they needed for prosecution. But as the two men neared, he saw that neither wore the police officers’ uniforms.  
They stopped on either side of him. Raskolnikov knew they would rob him and made no attempts to struggle as they hauled him to his feet. Despite his apparent passivity, the larger of the two men saw fit to plant a huge, ugly fist into his stomach. Raskolnikov bent double upon the impact, gagging and gasping, his eyes bulging as he retched in an attempt to vomit on an empty stomach. The man swung his fist again and connected it solidly with Raskolnikov’s skull. He fell to the ground heavily, choking, and felt dirty hands snatch over his body as the thugs sought out his wallet. Leaving his pockets empty, he saw them disappear back into the encroaching darkness. His vision blurred out and faded to black as he fell unconscious.


End file.
